


Slow Acting Venom

by nymeriamartell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged up! Sansa, Author cannot write long things, Author does what the fuck she wants, Author doesn't know what the fuck she's doing, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorne will make it better, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Fuck Canon I Do What I Want, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Sansa-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriamartell/pseuds/nymeriamartell
Summary: He could not take someone as important as the key to the North without serious negotiations. It was a good thing Doran was the best. In which Doran isn’t quite as coolheaded as he would like to be, the viper with slow acting venom, who will not let another wither and die within the walls of the Red Keep. Elia would have been disgusted, the whole of Dorne would be disgusted with him, and he would be disgusted with himself. The solution would not be ideal, for anyone involved, but she would be safe. Maybe in Dorne, she could find a family. He would be her goodbrother, after all.In which Doran rescues Sansa with his own clever thinking, quickly integrating her into his plans as though she was always meant to be there.*redone, previously named Winter Visits Dorne*





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Hey ya’ll, I’m back! So, I didn’t write for the longest time while I dealt with some stuff, and when I finally came back to this, I wanted to read over it to remember where I was. When I did, I was… Underwhelmed, to say the least. So, I’ve started a slow… Not exactly a rewrite, but I’m going through and editing. Comments on how to improve are ALWAYS WELCOME. PLEASE. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING AND YET HERE I AM. DOING IT.  
So, Sansa is about 15 in this fic because this is going to be slow burn but needs to be a little bit faster than regular canon.

The voyage to King’s Landing had not been easy for Doran, nor a trip he had particularly wanted to take, but when summoned by a king, it was in your best interest to obey. At least, for now. It had been hard deciding between an ocean voyage and the land crossing, though with the weather on their side as it had been so far, it had been the right choice. That’s all ruling was, when boiled down to its barest bones. It was assessing all the possible outcomes, and trying to predict which one would reap the greatest rewards, or avoid the greatest harm. Easier said than done, he mulled, looking out over the water. The sapphire blues cut by the white of sea foam, his dark eyes tracked it as he tried to rest his mind, just for a moment. He knew he would be haunted by memories, by alternate futures that could have been from the moment he stepped foot inside the Red Keep, and any small reprieve that could be found beforehand would be a relief.

He knew why the king had summoned him; it was a show. Look at our strong king, whom even Dorne bows to. Look at the strength of the crown, the lion and the stag meeting. It was enough to make him sick, but he would have to contain it. Just long enough to really assess the state of the capital, seek out its weakest players and turn them into his strongest assets. He would destroy the Lannisters’- and yes, that is who truly ruled the capital, no matter how many stags they plastered over the sigils, how many crowns they fashioned in the shape of horns- from within.

While on the boat Doran was free to walk with his cane as far as his body would allow, though as soon as King’s Landing could be spotted Doran confined himself to his wheelchair. While the stories of his illness that spread across the seven kingdoms were not outright falsehoods, he had not tried to downplay the more theatrical of them. Poor Prince Doran, who could not walk, in so much pain that he hardly rules. Foolish, he though, of them to discount him completely. The gout affected his legs, not his mind, which remained sharper than ever. They underestimated him, they underestimated all of Dorne. It had taken no time at all to forget the Dorne that withstood the dragons, and now they think a lion could break them. It was in Dorne’s best interest for now to be in a state of apparent weakness. Let them all see him as toothless, lest they expect the bite.

His chair rolled onto the docks, each jolt from the planks of wood like a nail into the coffin. He could see the red beast they called a castle, and each urchin child they passed, each desperate woman’s howls cut deep into his soul. He was no stranger to suffering, and while he was not naïve enough to think that Dorne was a paradise free from such evils, with the setting of the Red Keep each sad eye was his sister’s, each screeching child his niece, his nephew. He drew the curtain of his palanquin closed, putting a barrier both physically and emotionally between him and the ghosts. It would do him no good to dwell, not now. He had grander plans that would have them remembered. As they approached the throne room, he felt his reserve harden. The voice in the back of his mind, the voice that called for blood, screamed louder the closer he got, but his face betrayed none of the turmoil within him. His brother was the Red Viper of Dorne, high energy and flamboyant. Doran was the beating sun, hot and constant, and deadly. They would all burn.

The doors swung open. And the horror begun.

He wanted to throttle the blond bastard- and that was what he was, truly- with his own two hands, as he was rolled into the throne room. Sansa Stark was, by all rights, princess of the North, and she deserved better than beatings before the court. He looked around, and few enough people aside from his own party looked shocked at the ordeal, some looked bored while others looked almost pleased, to see this young girl being abused by grown men, and knights at that. They were beating this child for the amusement of the king, and Doran was sent spiralling back to a different time, a different king, a different girl. Did Aerys put Elia through this, before the Lannister’s destroyed her? Was she humiliated before court, more than she already had been by Rhaegar? They had killed her, and they were slowly killing this girl. Was Tywin stupid enough to let his grandson abuse the key to the North? Or was he simply callous enough to let it happen, right under his nose. All seven kingdoms knew who really ruled, and it wasn’t Joffrey, no matter how loudly he may proclaim himself to be king, and Doran knew Tywin could stop it, if he truly wanted to. Sansa shrieked under the blows that just kept coming- and coming, and coming, and wouldn’t stop, he knew- and he could feel his Captain of the Guard’s hands shake on his rolling chair, and knew that if Areo was any less loyal to him, or to the Martell family, he would have rushed forward and slain those mummers’ knights like they were training dummies. He would have brought the girl into his arms, and under his protection, and carried her to Dorne like The Stranger himself was chasing them.

Doran would send him forward to do just that, if they were not currently in the lion’s den, and the usurper’s son wasn’t currently holding a crossbow at the poor girl. He wanted to spirit the poor girl away from Kings Landing, put her on a horse and ride off into the sunset as if he were a knight in a song. In this dream, no girl would ever be hurt again, he could protect them all in Elia’s name. But songs were for children, and this was the game of thrones.

When the slimy boy-king finally looked at the prince of Dorne, and put down the crossbow, Doran sent half a dozen of his own men to escort the girl back to her rooms. He knew they would do right by her, keep her modest and get the maester to her quickly. Hopefully they took his maester to her, Doran could not see the men in King’s Landing doing anything to help her. They forgot who they stood before, as it seemed. Any child of Eddard Stark would have winter in their bones and ice in their veins. Winter could never be broken.

“Your highness, while what I am sure you are doing is of the utmost importance,” he had to keep his voice cool, keep himself from seeing Elia’s blood before the iron throne. Sansa Stark was not his blood, but Elia would have been furious if he had turned a blind eye to another girl suffering in the Red Keep. “My presence was requested?”

He could not take someone so important without serious negotiations, and simply riding out into the sunset was not the way to safely secure Sansa, nor prevent something like this happening to another girl. It was a good thing Doran was the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowzee, I was not expecting the reaction to the first chapter of this... I've taken longer with the second chapter than I expected, but I just want it to be something people can enjoy. I hope you do.

Time, and repeated beatings before the court, had schooled Sansa into keeping herself as blank as worn stone. Crying didn’t make her once sweet beloved stop, in fact it seemed to be the reaction he wanted. He wanted her to be shamed in front of the court, in front of people she had to look in the eye day after day, none of whom even tried to stop it. Tyrion had intervened once, had been her knight, but after Tywin returned, after the Battle of the Blackwater, he had no more power to protect her, not like he was protected. He was protected by his family name, while Sansa had to wear hers like chains. Such a stupid, cowardly girl, she chided herself, for not standing proudly as a Stark. Her own grandfather and uncle were murdered in this room, and she doubted they cowered on the floor and took the beatings.

With another strike from the flat of the Kingsguard’s sword she couldn’t keep the sobs contained in her chest, the air against her bare back and the wounds shockingly painful. Everyone just watched her humiliation, her suffering. It was no different to standing next to Cersei as her father was executed, screaming and crying and eventually passing out, the roar from the crowd filling her ears as they called her father a traitor. She remembered standing so tall, so confident that her plea for mercy would be heard, and she remembered how the wind changed as she realised how stupid she had been.

Sansa heard the unmistakable sound of the oak doors to the Great Hall swinging open, heavy footsteps approaching her from behind, and she flinched, much to her humiliation. She was stripped, her back bare for all to see, and now even more eyes were laid upon her shame. Her current wounds, and the raised scars and scabs that marred her pale flesh. “Prince Doran Martell of Dorne.” She heard called, and the already quiet room went silent enough to hear a pin drop. This had to be it, she thought. It was one thing to have her beaten in front of his most loyal, but not in front of nobles from other houses. Her own ragged breathing roared in her ears, and the unexpected strike of the sword pulled another sob from her. She couldn’t focus on the words being spoken, only the fiery pain from her wounds, warm blood flowing down into her torn dress.

She let out a whimper as a soft cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, her fragile body pulled into the arms of a handsome knight. He wore orange, and soft leathers. Dornish. It made sense, no one from King’s Landing would be brave enough to step in. Surely these men didn’t know who she was, who she was to the king, the danger they and their prince would be in for showing her even this small amount of kindness. But, Sansa was in too much pain to try and resist. She let him gather her in his arms and out of the Great Hall. He seemed confused by the modest chambers she was assigned, almost hesitant to lay her in the hard bed, though with enough convincing by Shae he finally did, lying her on her side. A soft hand rested against her brow for a second, a gentle touch that she wasn’t used to anymore, but as suddenly as she had felt it it was gone, and she was alone with her thoughts.

Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Cersei Lannister, Joffrey Lannister, Tywin Lannister. She had her list of those who had hurt her, or those who took pleasure in her pain. And the North remembers. 

* * *

There was no one in the wretched city that Doran wanted to see less than Tywin Lannister, but if he wanted to save Sansa Stark from his sister’s fate, he had to talk to the only man who had the power to give her away. He kept himself confined to his wheelchair, even though he could walk moderate distances, wanting the rest of the seven kingdoms to think the Ruling Prince of Dorne a frail man. Doran couldn’t be sure that Tywin bought the falsehood, he couldn’t be sure of much when it came to Tywin Lannister, but Doran would give him no reason to suspect there was anything happening in Dorne that he had to worry about. He was stronger than he would let them see, physically and mentally, and would always play that to his advantage.

When Caleotte had reported to him that this was certainly not the first time the Stark girl had been punished like he had seen, Doran’s blood boiled. What could she have done to face the wrath of a boy as cruel as his supposed father? He had also said the girl had cried and cried, sure that the Prince, his knights, his maester, would be put to the sword for the grave crime of helping her, and that she had flinched from the softest touches, even with her handmaiden standing by to keep him honest, and to make her feel safe from straying hands. It had taken him hours just to convince her to let him see the injuries, more on top of that to allow him to put the most basic of salves and bandages on them. Caleotte couldn’t promise that they wouldn’t scar, but he had promised that she would be safe enough from infection, leaving salve and bandages in the room so her ladies, if she even had any beyond the one they had seen, could attend to the wounds when they needed changing. He reported that the room was small, the furniture old. All to put her in her place, not allowing her to feel as though she was the Princess of the North.

Tywin was writing a letter as Doran was announced and let into the Hand’s chamber, not even bothering to look up at the Prince. The disrespect was not shocking; this was the same man who had ordered the deaths of a mother and her two children at the hands of his most brutal banner man, but it was telling nonetheless.

“Apparently, my Grandson, our King, was dolling out punishment when you and your retinue arrived.” Doran’s dark eyes met Tywin’s green, he had to resist the urge to snap. It would do no one any good to lose his temper, but the same blood ran through his and Oberyn’s veins, and Doran could not let such disrespect pass him by.

“Yes.” He went into no further detail, hoping the thin lips and stony expression on his face both expressed his displeasure with the situation, but didn’t give away too much. He couldn’t give away the skin he had in the game, not at such a fragile point.

“I am sure you have your reasons for coming all this way? The betrothal between your son and Myrcella has been all but announced.” Tywin pushed his letter aside, and Doran caught a quick glance at it. Just as he had suspected, it was nothing of great importance, certainly not something more important than the tender relationship between the Crown and Dorne.

“I was summoned by the king. Of course, I will heed his call. Besides, my son is not the only member of my family in need of a spouse.” Doran shrugged, leaning back in his chair. On a lesser man, that might have been seen as a slouch, but everything Doran did had a regal air about it.

“Yes, your daughter is still unmatched, isn’t she?” Tywin’s pale green eyes were piercing, and Doran could see how a lesser man could be intimidated, sitting across from the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. The Prince had to restrain himself from laughing, though. He would rather throw himself from the highest tower than let his beautiful daughter marry a Lannister. She deserved a husband who would worship her, who would cultivate her power and let her rule, not one who would stifle her.

“No.” He let the word hang for a moment, the stillness of the room. “My brother has eight bastards and a paramour. That makes him hard to match, to any highborn lady. He has a large inheritance, and is getting along in age. I will not allow such power to trickle down to bastards.” Doran could see that he had caught Tywin’s attention there. Famous for his lovers and many bastards, Doran had given up on him ever settling before Ellaria came into the picture. The mother to four his nieces, and a mother figure to the other four, she would always hold a special place in Doran’s heart as the woman who he was sure had saved Oberyn’s life. He knew she would do the same thing in his position, wanting to save the girl from further abuse, and Doran could not think of a better couple to nurse the girl back to health. Back to a place where she could trust soft touches and be free to be who she wanted to be. “And as such, I have a proposition for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you think! Any criticism is welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

Oberyn felt a shiver run down his spine, like winter itself was breathing down his neck. He was laid in bed with Ellaria and their youngest daughters, Obella nestled against his side, with Elia hugging her mother. Doreza always favoured sleeping at the end of the bed, with Loreza squeezing in the middle. Obella started to wake as Oberyn shivered, looking at her father with confused eyes. “Papa?” She asked, voice heavy with sleep.

“Do not worry, little one.” He cooed, holding her tighter, pressing a kiss to her brow. He had had such feelings few times before, like just before Doran had told him that they would be allying themselves with the new generation of dragons. Oberyn and Doran were close, closer than ever after Elia’s murder, and Oberyn seemed to have a knack for working out when Doran was up to something, before even a whiff of a rumour had made its way to Sunspear. He let out a soft sigh, hoping his brother knew what he was doing. Schemes were well and good, when plotted out from the relative safety of Dorne, where no lions dared stalk, but he was in their den now. He sent a prayer to the Mother, to keep his brother safe, and when his eyes rested on his lovely paramour, all thoughts of his brother were sent to the back of his mind for later consideration. His wife in all but words, the mother to his children. Every time he saw her interact with them, his heart swelled. He loved her more each and every day, never thinking it possible that such a love could grow more than it had over the years they had been together. Her eyes fluttered open, and the soft morning light made her look like she was made of pure gold. He thanked the gods each and every day that she had been sent to his life. He could not imagine a life where he could be happier than he was right then. When she smiled, it was brighter than the sun, and Oberyn couldn’t help but mirror the smile.

* * *

Sansa didn’t know what to expect, when her presence was requested by the Prince of Dorne. He had been nice to her so far, but all kindness came with a hidden cost, and Sansa didn’t know what she had left to give. She was thankful that he had saved her from further humiliation and injury in the throne room, but couldn’t understand why he had put himself at such risk by helping her. From her mother, she had heard that Dorne was a wild place, full of lust and fighting and heat. From her father, she had heard a different story. A place of pride, like the North, a place that doesn’t forget slights against them, and the Lannister’s had committed the greatest crime of all, killing three Martell’s in one night. Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon, all gone too soon, and in such a horrible way. Her father hadn’t told her the details of what had happened to Princess Elia and her children when he told her the story on the King’s Road, except that she was betrayed in a time of war, but since his death Sansa had put the pieces together. Their deaths would not have been quick, and Sansa had been told in so many details by Cersei what happened to women during a siege, when Stannis Baratheon had been breathing down their necks. A part of her had wished for him to break down the gates, to storm the city. She would suffer, yes, but she was suffering already.

Daemon Sand, the beautiful and kind knight who had carried her from the throne room, hadn’t left the door to her room since she had been laid on the bed. He guarded her like a true knight should, in a way that would have put butterflies in her stomach just a few years earlier. He was a Sand, a Dornish bastard, and a few years ago that would have mattered far too much to her. Sansa’s mind wandered to Jon, then. How she’d treated him, a mirror of how her mother had treated him. His birth was no fault of his, and yet she’d treated him as though bastard was some kind of infection. Like it would rub off onto her if she showed him the slightest kindness, and suddenly mother wouldn’t love her either.

When she asked him why she was being treated with such kindness he simply looked at her, equal parts kindness and sadness in his dark eyes in a way she hadn’t seen before. As though he truly was sorry for what was happening to her. Men these days looked at her with a range of looks, from lust to disgust to indifference, like she wasn’t even there, and that so far was her favourite look of all, but this kindness took her back to the warm halls of Winterfell, of Jory and Jon and Robb and even Theon sometimes. Daemon didn’t make her feel safe, Sansa was unsure if she would ever feel safe again, but he made her feel something. These days, that in itself was a rare feat. She hesitated when she was finally brought to Doran’s chambers, pulling her lower lip in and chewing on it furiously. All she knew of the Prince is what he had done for her, and while that on its own gave no cause for concern, she was worried about his motives. What use could the daughter and sister of a traitor have to offer a prince? She was a stupid girl, why would he want to talk to her?

Her back ached, a familiar feeling of split skin and bruises, though it felt a lot better thanks to maester Caleotte salve. Sansa was used to having to simply deal with the pain, never being allowed any treatment, as though they wanted her to scar, wanted her to have to live with a reminder of her own bad decisions for the rest of her life. It was her own fault that her father was dead, after all. Had she not gone to Cersei after finding out father wanted to save them from this Gods-forsaken city, none of this would have happened.

She tried to list the things she needed to thank the Prince for in her head, already plotting out how to word it without speaking treason to the king. A careful dance, she didn’t know how loyal the Martell’s were to the crown. She had her own ideas, based on what little information she knew, but she didn’t trust her own mind anymore. At one point she had thought she was so smart and so mature, had assumed she had known everything.

Daemon opened the door, giving her what she was sure was meant to be a reassuring smile, and she sucked in a breath.

* * *

Physically, she looked just like her mother. She had the real Tully look about her, tall and slender, and that red hair. But her spine was dead straight, and her eyes had a coldness to them that Doran had seen before. When Eddard Stark came to escort Lyanna Stark’s body home, Doran had looked him in the eyes. The war had been tough on him, he was no longer the second son, he was Warden of the North, and it showed in his eyes. His daughter shared that haunted look, and it broke the Prince’s heart. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and tell her everything would be alright, like he had done with his children and nieces when they had nightmares, but Caleotte’s warning about her skittishness told him that such affection would not be appreciated. How cruel, that she had been so terribly treated that she could no longer accept true kindness, but he should not have expected any more from the lion’s den.

“Lady Sansa, I am glad to see you up. Caleotte advised against requesting you from your rooms while your back is still so tender, and while I respect his opinion, I wanted to see you. We have much to talk about. If the pain becomes too great, please let me know.” He gestured to the plush chair he had at the table, with jug honeyed milk and platter of fruit sitting in the centre. “Help yourself. I find a little honeyed milk now keeps my stomach settled later when Caleotte gives me my medicines.” He watched her reaction then, as it told him a lot of a person’s character. She didn’t look at his chair, just as she didn’t not look, and he felt as though she saw past it to just see him.

“I can only thank you, my prince, for your kindness, and the kindness of your men. Maester Caleotte, and his work… I feel much better.” Her courtesies were impeccable, he noted, and her movements were graceful, even though he knew it must have pained her. “And how have you been, these past days? The journey from Dorne must have been taxing.” Her voice was brittle and small, but her shoulders didn’t slouch even as she sat. The most polished courtesies he had seen since his arrival, and the first person who neither gawked at him or avoided his gaze entirely. Her eyes were ice blue and as empty as a clear sky, and had seen far too much for a girl of her age. She made no move towards the drinks or the fruit, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Oh, I’ve been fine.” He waved a hand, pouring two glasses of the milk, placing one before her. She may be too polite to take from him, but he couldn’t in good conscience not feed her. “I have a few questions, Sansa, but first I need you to know that you are safe here. That may be hard to believe, after what you’ve been through, but you are.” He would not allow another hand to be put on the girl, not ever. Though she did not know it, she was under the protection of House Martell. She nodded, though he could see it was an empty gesture. “Anything you say will move no further than this room.”

“Sansa, I know what I saw yesterday was just the beginning of your abuse. What I need to know is, would you like an escape?” She didn’t move for a long moment, just staring at him with those empty, dead man’s eyes. How much had she suffered to be able to hide her emotions so well? He was so reminded of Arianne at that age, how full of life, and love, and happiness she was. His nieces, and their unbridled joy. It broke his heart.

“I am loyal to the Crown.” She replied, a well-rehearsed line. Doran sighed, it was the response he expected but he hoped for so much more. Maybe it was too much to put on her, a girl who has had to look at every act of kindness for the truth it was, but it stung nonetheless. He had a few cards up his sleeve to pull, a few moves to make, but they were lower than he wanted to go.

“My Lady, I am sure you have heard the story of my sister, Elia, and her children?” He asked, and her eyes flew to the floor, for the first time unable to meet his. He sighed again, placing his hand over hers. She flinched, a full body jerk that nearly pulled her hand out of his, but he held on tighter. “They were killed here, in this castle, by the same people who now sit the throne. Elia never hurt a soul in her life, and yet they killed her, right here in this castle.” He watched as the pieces were put together in her mind. If the Princess of Dorne, wife to the future King of the Seven Kingdoms, was not safe in this castle, what hope did Sansa Stark, disgraced daughter of a supposed traitor, have? “I can take you away from here.”

The words hung in the air, the implication heavy. Her gasp was almost undetectable, her eyes widening only slightly. Doran hoped she would come to Dorne, if only to help Arianne learn to school her emotions so well. “Away?” She asked, breaths slow and even. He could almost see the cogs working in her mind, trying to work out his next move. His heart broke, she was too young to understand this game so well.

“Away. To Dorne. My brother, Oberyn, is wifeless, though he does have his paramour. He is one of the fiercest warriors you’ll ever meet, and honourable despite what you may have heard. In Dorne, we do not hurt little girls. They are kept safe. It would be a long betrothal, at least until you are eight-and-ten and longer if you wish it so.” He paused, hoping that none of what he had said was missed by Sansa. “It would be a paper relationship, a shield.”

“Dorne.” She said quietly, and he could imagine her there. He imagined her playing in the Water Gardens with his nieces, talking politics with Arianne, and Trystane teaching her cyvasse. Her eyes would water at the spicy foods at first, but soon enough she would take to them, just like she would spiced wine. He would order her a whole wardrobe in her father’s colours, every silver silk he could find, and maybe one day she would favour the orange and reds of the Martell’s. If she ever permitted it, and it was within her right to refuse, she may one day carry more of his nieces, little girls with their father’s eyes and their mother’s strength. But, Doran was getting ahead of himself. The poor thing hadn’t even accepted yet, and he was already planning out her life.

“You would be safe, Sansa. I swear it, on…” He almost said, as his honour as a Prince, but Joffrey had been a Prince once too. How had that worked out for her? “I swear it on your father’s gods, Sansa, that I will keep you safe.” His brother too, and he can count on his daughter agreeing with him once she hears the story. She looked at him with those big blue eyes, and Doran wondered if she really did believe him. For once, he had no longer plan, no ulterior motive, she wasn’t a pawn in his quest for revenge. She was the revenge, just not the type he had come to King’s Landing looking for. What was a better way to honour Elia? The head of the Mountain, or the life of a girl?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter three, eh? Things are starting to move along a little now, and I think I'm finding my voice, but as always, I would love to hear your thoughts. This is my first fic I've written for ASOIAF/GOT and I am still a baby bird finding my wings. So, give it to me straight, people, and if you think there's something I can be doing better, let me know!  
This is a touch longer than the previous chapters, but if I moved Doran's part to chapter four it was short? And that felt weird too? I don't know, I'm winging this.
> 
> In other news... I made a SAV [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com.au/nymeriamartel/slow-acting-venom/) . Have a peek if you want to see my inspiration for this!


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa had managed to keep her composure for the entire walk from Doran’s rooms, was proud of herself for that feat, the tears only starting to fall the second the door closed behind her, and she was alone. She couldn’t cry in front of the men who escorted her to her room, lest they report back to the Prince that she was ungrateful for his kindness, that she didn’t appreciate what she was given, and she was alone so much of her day. The last rays of sun streamed through her window and turning the small room a hellish red. There wasn’t much to her room, a cloudy and scratched looking-glass, a bed, a wardrobe that held her clothes, but as her icy eyes looked everything over, it all seemed sharper. Her breath came in sharp bursts, the pain in her back amplified until it was all Sansa could do to walk to the bed and sit. Her blood thrummed through her veins, her head pounded, it was all too much.

Daemon Sand still stood guard outside her door, and Sansa wondered if he ever tired. Doran had promised her a guard, a true guard, that would defend her honour, but the thought sent her heart to her gut. They still were knights, were men, and while she had no reason not to trust them, she couldn’t bring herself to see them as the protection Doran had made them out to be. How could he protect her, even with all his promises, from the King? Unless Doran was willing wo wage war for her, and who would wage war for her, if the King wanted her beaten she would be.

Sansa couldn’t even tell what emotion she was feeling, whether it was shock, or relief, or terror, as she dug her nails into the soft flesh of her palms, tears blurring her vision. She was to be married to the Red Viper, brother of Doran, prince of Dorne. A man over twice her age, a man who already had everything he needed. What could she, a girl of five and ten have to offer him? A small voice whispered what she could only fear, but she tried to pay it no mind. She had experienced nothing but kindness from every Dornishman so far, had experienced nothing to make her doubt the sincerity. But she had heard the rumours that swirled, and the truths about his paramour and eight daughters. The fact that he had bastards wasn’t as much of an issue as Sansa thought, as much of an issue as it had been for her mother, she was just worried what he would expect from her. Maybe already having a woman would make him less likely to want her, though she couldn’t be sure. There were too many possibilities, and after learning Joffrey’s moods as well as she had, the unknown was more terrifying than anything.

She had learned her place in King’s Landing, and if she ever forgot it there were more than enough reminders, from her small, well-worn wardrobe, to the small room she had been held in, even before she had been put aside for Margaery Tyrell. And she had taken it in, making herself as small as possible, thinking the words stupid girl like a prayer. She called her family traitors, and took her beatings, and sung the songs they asked of her. She was a good little bird, and she knew the words she had to say, and even more importantly, when to remain silent. She lived inside a cage, but it was a cage she knew.

Sansa carefully stripped the dress off of her frame, used to having to do things on her own. She had her handmaids, but they were Lannister women, not prone to wanting to help her. She had Shae, but it seemed more and more like there was something the woman was keeping from her. She snuck away in the night, and even when she was here it seemed like sometimes she wasn’t. Ever the lady, Sansa didn’t let her dress hit the floor, hanging it back in the beaten wardrobe. She had so few things, they needed to last.

As she laid her head on the lumpy pillow, she couldn’t help but imagine what life could look like in Dorne. Doran had promised her protection, respect, compassion, if she wanted it. As she had sat in silence, he had gone into detail about the water gardens, about his daughter, about the warm sun and the cool sea. It seemed like a dream, like a song, and she couldn’t trust it. King’s Landing had once been everything she wanted, and now she was here it was a nightmare. All she wanted was the warmth of Winterfell, of embroidery with Septa Mordane, and her mother brushing her hair. She wanted to be somewhere where people smiled at her again, and the commonfolk were treated well. She wanted to feel safe as she closed her eyes at night, and loved when she opened them in the morning.

She had accepted the proposal. As terrified as she might be, she knew she could not survive too many more of Joffrey’s rages.

* * *

The morning sun was shining through the window as the door to Sansa’s modest chamber was thrown open, mother of the king strutting through as though she owned the room. Cersei did own the room, in a way. Joffrey would never protect Sansa from the vile queen, she had realised too late. And neither would Cersei protect her from Joffrey. She had heard some quietly wonder where Joffrey’s madness had come from, but Sansa knew. A poisonous woman bore a poisonous son, it was simple as that. Any other rumours were simply irrelevant. Sansa sat up in the bed, clutching the sheets to her chin as women, women she didn’t know, entered the room.

The door hadn’t shut, but a man, cloaked in signature orange, was stood in the door frame. Sansa thought she saw another flick of cloth leaving down the hallway, but with sleep still clouding her mind, she couldn’t be sure.

“Take it. All of it.” Cersei commanded, and the women collected up Sansa’s meagre possessions without hesitation. Cersei’s wildfire eyes locked on Sansa, and her mouth twisted. “You are no longer a ward of the crown. As such, you’ll burden us no more.” She didn’t look as satisfied as Sansa might have thought, finally being rid of her. But that was of little matter now, as the women took her gowns. Sansa started to panic then, watching as though she was outside herself. “The Martell’s want you? They can have you. But they can also feed you, clothe you, support you.” The implication was obvious, what would Sansa bring to the Martell’s, to be such a drain on resources. “You’ll be the Red Viper’s whore as soon as your boat docks. If you think the Martell’s hold any love for the Starks, you’ll find yourself soon corrected.” Her pale hand reached out to Sansa’s vanity, snatching up-

“No!” The word was loud, and harsh against her tongue. It was a word that she hadn’t used since her father died, one that she didn’t even dare think, but Cersei had her doll. It was the last thing she had of her father, an awful reminder of how she had dismissed him but a reminder of him nonetheless. She was standing now, sheets discarded on the floor, but she had no care for dignity now. These women would have seen her bare skin already, or heard of the tales from other women. All that mattered now was the last piece of family she had left. “That is not the crowns to take.”

“You heard the lady.” Her guard had said after a beats silence, breaking Cersei’s glare. She didn’t hand it back, but Sansa saw her grip loosen, and she took the doll from her, clutching it to her chest with a death grip. With a swirl of rich red skirts, a pale hand pushing the Dornishman out of the way, and suddenly it was just the two of them. Sansa was suddenly very aware of the thin shift, a few inches short of decent, a thin layer of sweat covering her and the only sound in the room her heavy breathing. “Doran will hear about this.” He said softly, and once again Sansa could not find a hint of threat in his voice. “Wait here, we’ll get you everything you need.” He closed the door behind him as he left. Everything she needs. The words rung in her head like the city bells.

* * *

Doran fumed as his guard retold the events in Sansa’s chambers. That the Queen Regent humiliated Sansa was not a surprise, but he had thought that her being promised to his brother would cover her in some protection. “I need a few girls.” He said quickly. “They can go to her rooms first, get a basic look at her size. Then, and I don’t care if they have to turn this city upside down, they will find some clothes for her. Good clothes. Some jewels too. Spend as much as you need, we won’t be remaining long.” Tywin had offered Doran a place on the small council, an offer to strengthen ties between Dorne and the Crown, he had called it. Doran couldn’t imagine having to spend another day in King’s Landing, and while it pained him to have to send another in his place, to reject the position outright was a huge disrespect. So, with a light claim of his illnesses preventing him from serving the crown as fully as they needed, and a promise to find someone else to fill the roll, Doran was stuck having to ask one of his loyal men to stay behind. It was the last thing he wanted, a Dornishman stuck in King’s Landing with no real end date in sight. He would have to think it over, and ask for a volunteer. There was no way he would force someone to stay here, not after what had happened in the past.

“Arron Qorgyle.” He called, tapping his fingers against the wood of his desk, his mind turning over and over and over. He had to prepare to leave, not wanting Sansa to spend a moment more than she had to in the city, and not wanting to remain himself. It was sooner than he was planning to leave, and it threw his plans off, but it was worth it. He heard the footsteps, pulling himself out of his own mind and looking up at the man. “Take a seat. I have a question, that I am hoping you will be able to answer. Would your sister oppose becoming one of Sansa’s maids?”

“I doubt it,” Arron replied, a playful smile on his lips. He poured two glasses of wine, placing one in front of the prince and keeping one for himself. “Wylia hasn’t stopped talking about her since we arrived. I can see if she has any dresses that would fit the Lady, too, if you’d like?”

“That would be wonderful, if she doesn’t mind. I’ll reimburse her, of course, once we return.” Another thing that Doran added to his plate, though he had known getting Sansa out of King’s Landing would be hard. “Can you gather the other lords, as well?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but if I don't finish it now it'll have to wait until after my exams.  
I might come back and tweak it, but we'll see.  
As always, I love hearing from people, especially if there's anything you think I could be doing better.


	5. Chapter 5

Here she was, a perfect model of Dorne’s generosity, standing at the docks waiting to be whisked away. Her new maid, a beautiful girl named Wylia Sand, had given her some of her dresses. They weren’t a perfect fit, Sansa was taller than Wylia, and Wylia was curvier than Sansa, and the dress itself was not what Sansa was used to, lighter than even the court gowns she had seen from the ladies from Highgarden. The material was gauzy and loose, and floated like something out of a painting. It was sea foam green, and darker around the edges, and in the harsh sunlight Sansa realised, to her horror, that it was almost see-through around her lower legs. She was thankful for the shift underneath keeping her modest, though Cersei’s words still rang through her ears. The Red Viper’s whore. It circled and circled and circled while she slept, while there was silence, though with Wylia there wasn’t much of that. She was also thankful for the new shoes, as in this dress everyone would have seen the mess her old ones had become. The dress was lighter than anything she was used to, but Sansa couldn’t tell whether the weight lifted off of her shoulders was due to the lighter fabric, or how close she was to escape.

It wasn’t the rescue she dreamed of, a white knight and his steed, but Sansa was not about to say no. She was almost free of the Lannister’s, and while she didn’t know what new schemes she was walking herself into, it had to be better than this. At the very least, it might offer a chance to go home. If not home, to the Riverlands, where she heard that her brother still fought valiantly. The Young Wolf hadn’t lost a battle, and Sansa wondered if her brother even had time to think of her, and her plight. If mother had time to say prayers for her, to the Seven or to the old Gods.

Joffrey had not come to see her off, but surprisingly, Olenna Tyrell had. She had come to join her granddaughter, no doubt, as her betrothal to Joffrey was due to be short. With enemies all around, the crown needed strong allies. Sansa wished they had allied with the North. Margaery could have married Robb, and with another house on the Northern side, she couldn’t imagine the Lannister’s ever winning. It was a child’s fantasy, but a nice one to live in for a little bit. The Queen of Thornes approached her, delicately embroidered fabric laid carefully across her. They hadn’t spoken, the two of them, but she approached Sansa as though she’d known her her whole life. Maybe she had, or at least girls like Sansa. A long and interesting life, had she more time she may have even asked Olenna for advice.

“In another life, you would have been happy in Highgarden.” Olenna sighed, a hand coming up to stroke one of the braids that Wylia had artfully crafted for her. Olenna didn’t look sad, at least not for her. She only looked… Disappointed. As though they were playing a game of chess, and Sansa had somehow ruined her plan. “I hope for your sake, you’ll find a way to be happy in Dorne.” Sansa couldn’t quite find the right words to reply. Of course, the Tyrell’s had wanted her, now that the Lannister’s had thrown her aside. It was the way of the world, a wheel that kept turning. There was no courteous reply to the information Olenna offered, only doubt. Had she really picked the best option, or simply the first one to appear. Would she be happy in Dorne? The thoughts were pushed from her head as Wylia wrapped her arm around Sansa, pulling her away from Olenna and up the gangplank.

“The ship won’t wait forever!” She laughed merrily, gold eyes sparkling in the sun. “You’re going to love Dorne, Sansa. I can’t wait to introduce you to some of the other girls. Oberyn spends a lot of his time in Sunspear, but I doubt he would disagree to you spending time in the Water Gardens.” The thought sent her stomach to her feet. She’d be a married woman soon, if the rumoured were true. Wedded, and suddenly not her own person. She hadn’t been her own person in the Red Keep either, but once she’d been put aside no one has really cared where she went or what she did, as long as she was quiet and never left the castle. As she stepped onto the boat, the subtle waves making her sway on her feet, there was no turning back.

* * *

Her first few days on the ship were filled with the ever-present nausea. The waves had not been kind to Sansa, who had never spent time on the ocean. She was part Tully, her mind chided her, the water should fill her with life, not keep her confined to her bed, her new friend having to brush back her hair while she retched. She didn’t know why this girl put up with her. Even before, in King’s Landing, Sansa hadn’t been the best of company, and yet Wylia persisted. It made Sansa suspicious. The Queen had been lovely to Sansa too, at first.

On her third day, Sansa could finally keep down food, and Wylia insisted on a walk on the deck. Sansa still didn’t have the strength to fight her on this, accepting her help to put on one of her borrowed gowns, a yellow dress with her arms exposed, but less sheer than the sea foam green one. It still felt improper, being so exposed, but she wasn’t about to turn her nose up. It was still a beautiful dress, and high quality, and better than anything Sansa had worn in a long time. Besides, this was the culture of her betrothed. She would have to simply adapt, as she adapted to the Capital. They walked, arm in arm, Sansa looking out at the ocean. For all the nausea, she was glad not to be riding. She hadn’t ridden in so long, and even when she was allowed to, she’d never been too good. Wylia did most of the talking, more about Dorne, and Dornish culture. Sansa was grateful she kept the questions of Sansa’s home to a minimum, taking the cues that she just wasn’t ready to talk about it. Wylia stopped, fairly suddenly, and it pulled Sansa back to her mind. They stood in front of Doran, who, although seated, didn’t have his wheeled chair with him. That struck Sansa as odd. In King’s Landing, all she’d seen him use was the chair, but now… The speculation did her no good. Sansa dipped into a deep curtsey.

“My prince. I must apologise for my absence-“ She started, but ate her words when Doran raised a hand, and Sansa near choked on her words. He commanded respect, Prince Doran, but she didn’t fear him. Maybe she should, maybe she was being a stupid girl again, but when he smiled at her, she couldn’t help but mirror it with her own timid smile.

“I’ll hear no apologies from you, Lady Stark. Especially not for something that isn’t your fault.” He waved away the men and women around them, and Wylia followed. It was the two of them now, on the deck, the sharp wind drowning out any words they might say from any eavesdroppers. It was a cold wind, full of salt, and it made Sansa shiver, though she tried to hide it.

“We’ll get you some dresses more… Suited to your upbringing, when we arrive in Sunspear. We had to work with what we had.” Doran gave her a sad smile, and Sansa felt her stomach drop. Had she really seemed so uncomfortable? She’d tried to hide it, just act as though it was as normal as breathing to have her legs partially exposed, to wear a gown without sleeves. She’d tried to recall the way her mother had walked, with her shoulders high.

“Please don’t think me ungrateful, my prince.” She replied, having to speak up lest her voice be lost. Doran shrugged his shoulders slightly, his dark eyes still on her, though they didn’t feel like the men who had stared at her, the stares she was used to. It felt calculating, like he was measuring her worth, further than the width of her hips or whether she had flowered. He looked at her as more than a girl, or as though being a girl wasn’t a disqualifying factor.

“I could think you nothing of the sort. Is there anything I can do to ease your mind, on our trip?” He had a glass of water in his hand, his thumb rubbing absently over the rim. Sansa herself was rubbing her hands, over and over and over as her mind ticked. There was only one thing he could give her, to give her peace.

“Can you tell me about him? Oberyn, I mean.” Doran’s face split into a smile, as though it was the question he had wanted her to ask. His reaction was a relief, confirmation that she was doing the right thing, asking the right questions, giving the right impressions. He placed the glass on a small table beside him, turning to face her more fully. He seemed ten years younger already, just at the thought of his brother.

“Of course. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours, the scandals. Of his paramour, and my nieces. But to me, Oberyn will always be the chubby little boy, running around the water gardens with a wooden sword. I always told him to stop running, that’s he’d slip on the wet tiles, and he never listened. He’d fall, and then he’d laugh, and get up and run again.” Doran seemed almost lost in the memory for a moment, but his description was almost a stab to Sansa’s heart.

“That’s how I imagine my littlest brother, Rickon.” The words came out tinny and small. He would never grow older than that. She’d never see just how much he’d take after their Tully relatives, or if he’d look more like father and Jon. She’d never see either of her younger brothers become men, thanks to Theon Greyjoy, and see the good Stark men they would have become.

* * *

Wylia woke Sansa at the first light after an endless time spent on the ship, a pure excitement that Sansa hadn’t seen since… Since Arya. The sleepy thought was quickly pushed aside as Wylia pulled her onto the decks, even though she was still in her sleep shift. The men were out there, of course, steering the ship into… Shore! The vastness of the ocean was parted by land, so close she could start to make out buildings. The sky was clear, and the waves more amicable than they had been so far. Everything was quiet, the world only just starting to wake, but Sansa couldn’t imagine sleeping now.

“They say we’re only a few hours out, Sansa, as long as the wind holds. We should start preparing.” As if Sansa hadn’t been mentally preparing since the moment she had agreed to Doran’s proposal. But, in the physical sense, she couldn’t be any less prepared, her gifts strewn around her cabin. It was time to pack up. It was time to meet her betrothed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five chapters in and we're just getting to the part where they meet. Me? A slut for slow burn?


End file.
